Samson's Soliloquy
by JoeMan500
Summary: A short and quick piece. A monologue by Samson about his life.


SAMSON'S SOLILOQUY

Knew right from the get out I wasn't gonna be no shortstop for the Sox alright. But Papa always had a good sense o' humor. Nicknamed me Samson at birth. Said they had to get my Pa to pry off my little hand from the nurse's finger. After that, I guess he figured he could name me strong, like Adam did with the animals and whatnot. And it just kinda stuck. Much to my chagrin, I'll say. But I still bet that son'bitch thought it was real goddamn funny. Kids at school sure got a kick outta it.

Hadda sign the paperwork for that big lug too. Ain't had a signature on my own birth certificate till I was well on to learnin' cursive. Stupid ole lug. That's what ya get for comfortin' the fresh-off-the-boat. I mean, don't get me wrong, I hold 'em no ill will mind you. And I was never much for cross burnin' front of the docks. Hands were never quite big enough to hold the torches. Ha ha.

Big hands. Funny what ya remember, huh? Big ole German hands. Patted me on the head with that rough, calloused mit so much, near batted down my scalp next to nothin'. Most likely why my head's next-to-nothin' now. (Least when it comes to havin' a 'do.) Left black marks he did. Fresh from the mines.

Well, not really fresh o'course. After droppin' a sawbuck at the bar. Heh. Smell o' The Green Fairy still so thick on his breath, be libel to pickle a canary while still singin'. Maybe that's why they went through all them birds down in the mines. Haha. Must've been 'bout half the coal-dust and half the drunken ole mine men.

Hardly understand a word that man said once he got some good hard liquor poured down his gullet. 'Course, back then that old Temperance movement wasn't nothing much more than a pinprick in some old biddy's head. Didn't think nothin' to hear some lumb'ring ole Duetchman coming in from after work with some o' that wormwood on his breath. How them ole hunkies love that absinthe, I tell ya what. Hadn't had some good stuff myself in a dog's age. Then again, I was always more partial to whiskey.

'Course by the time I was old enough to imbibe the stuff, I'd already hightailed it outta there. Caught me some luck with the Lilliputia gang over at Coney Island. Wanted more than anythin' to join the circus. You weren't never a freak with carnies. Hell, the whole carnival ain't much more than a freakshow with some rides. Knew some rousties worse'n some of the so-called freaks. So Coney took me on. Wanted nothin' more than to be a roustabout myself. Like I always say, you ain't gonna headline 'till you earn it. Not that I wanted to earn it, mind you. Alls I was lookin' for was three squares a day (Hell, I woulda taken two), and a place to hang my hat without worryin' when a game o' keep-away was gonna start.

But I'll be damned if the old bastards didn't decide to institute a new "mighty-mite" show. Backstabbin' old son'bitches. Worse'n Sunday School it was. (Granted, at least I didn't have to sing no spir'tuals.) Hung around for 'bout five years or so. Got tired of workin' the little-man show. I'll be damned if I wasn't ready to get outta "Midget City" right quick. So I hopped along to one of those traveling shows. Only way to see the world, they said at the time. One way or another, that's how I got where I am today. And I seen some incredible things, I'm tellin' ya. Things is getting weird 'round here. Now I don't rightly no what's gonna happen. This crash done did a lot of bad to a lot o' good people.

One thing I DO know, however, is that there's still a place for our kinda work. Now, I know what y'all thinking. That we're just a con act. Hustlin' and bustlin' our way cross-country. Well I'm hear to tell that just ain't the case. I wouldn't be part o' no operation like that. Granted, I HAVE done my fair share of flimflams in the past. But the ideal behind what we do is legit. One hundred and ten percent. We sell the American Dream. We sell wonder. Nobility. And, Hell, if I can give these poor townies a little escape from the dust 'n' debt, well then I'll be if I haven't earned whatever measly little donation we charge at the gate. Times is gettin' mighty serious 'round here.

I thought once 'bout quittin' the biz. But what can I say? I'm built for showbuisness. And once Hyde and Teller picked me up, gave me job as general manager... Well, what can I say? I like my station. Top o' the ladder. Feels nice being the big guy for a bit. Granted I take my fair share o' lumps. But on the whole, it's a clean job. Keeps my head outta the dust, I tell ya. Ridin' high. Well, high as one gets roundabout these times. Catch as catch can, I guess. Things is gettin' barebones. E'en with a mind like a steel trap, not that I'm saying I got one. It's awful tough nowabouts.

Old man did teach me somethin', though. Never let a single bit outta his pocket 'lest he said so. ('Sides for when he was busy putting down a fiver for some drink now and then.) Made sure to bring home the bacon. And always had a glint in his eye. Musta been where I got the penchant for, shall we say, "creative economic endeavors." Old man always lookin' to sell some tin back to the plants. Now if it just happened to fall off the truck again on the way back, so be it. Haha. "Jeder gewinn in seinem haus," that's what he always use'd to say. Doesn't mean much nowadays, but back in the Old Country, it was the Way o' the World. Basically means you get whatever you can and keep it close, and take care o' your own. Sorta carried over into my line o' work, at least. Sill hold those words dear to my heart. Some of the little bit of the Deutsch I can still recall. Translated roughly, it goes along the lines of "Every profit in his house." 


End file.
